


Hear All My Sins Laid Down in Verse

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Drabble Collection, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seven Deadly Sins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-25 09:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10761108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: Frank, Laurel, and the seven deadly sins in seven drabbles.





	1. Envy

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a sort of AU of season 3, where the fire never happened, Wes never died, and Laurel was never pregnant bc fuck that. All of these will be around 1k words; I'm trying to write something short for once.
> 
> Enjoy hoes ;P

He watches her at the office. Watches _them_.

It’s stupid. It’s masochistic. It’s self-flagellating, fucking pathetic. It’s bad for him, and Bonnie never fails to remind him of the fact, well-meaning as ever but irritating as hell. He hates thinking of her and the Puppy as _them_ , as together, as one instead of two, and it’s petty, possessive, but he’s not above jealousy. He’s not going to lie and pretend he’s that good a man.

Not a good man at all, really. And that’s why she doesn’t want him.

He gave her everything. Gave her his all. Gave her the truth she longed for, and she threw that truth back in his face and walked out on him – and he can’t blame her. He _doesn’t_ blame her. Perhaps they were doomed from the start, the both of them; fated to end badly with so many lies and secrets muddying the water around them. Condemned from that very first kiss, that Judas kiss that would drive them both to their doom.

He watches them. He can’t help it.

They’re appropriately discreet around the office; rarely ever daring more than a lingering gaze, sometimes chancing a brush of their hands together, or sitting on the sofa just an inch too close, venturing beyond a normal platonic proximity. He can’t decide if that’s better or worse, their caution.

Sometimes he thinks he’d rather see it all, rip off the Band-Aid all at once and feel the burn instead of prolonging it; see her place her hand on his knee invitingly and bat those eyes of hers, and let him seal his mouth over hers and kiss her hard and deep. See them _fuck_ , because he’s a fucking masochist and a fool when it comes to Laurel Castillo, and he always will be.

He’d heard them, that day in her apartment. Hadn’t watched. Hadn’t thought he’d be able to stand it. It would’ve made him a creep, a pervert, but really, when added to his list of transgressions after _murderer_ , those don’t sound that bad at all, comparatively.

She’d faked it, with Wes. She’d moaned too long and too loud and far too high; he knows how her moans sound, her _real_ moans, when he’d used to wring them from her throat, low and guttural and growling after he’d fucked her into oblivion and back. He knows them like a song, like a familiar verse and a chorus and a bridge he could sing in his sleep.

She’d faked it, with Wes, and of course the kid hadn’t realized, because for all his bumbling kindness and boyish charm, he doesn’t know her. Not like he does.

He knows her, every inch of her body, every crevice and crease and scar, and every story behind them. He misses her so much he can’t sleep, can’t breathe; she’s like a little weight behind his sternum, an ache he carries with him wherever he goes, her laughter and her kisses and her moans. It’s stupid, and he told her once that this isn’t high school – _you don’t like me, I don’t like you_ – but he’s always been good at giving advice then proceeding to completely ignore it himself.

It’d stupid, pining after her like a schoolboy, fucking unrequited love and all that sentimental bullshit, but he loves her so much sometimes he feels like it could bleed right out of him, seep out of his pores, burst him out of his skin. It’s poisoned him, shot venom into his veins and withered him until he no longer recognizes himself, and it’d be so easy to blame her, blame her for not wanting him, but he can’t.

He has nobody to blame but himself, like she said. And she’s always right.

Looking back on their time together, through the lens of the present, everything seems so golden, so perfect, beautiful on the surface with so much horror festering underneath, like a wound, a masquerade. So he relies on those memories to keep him warm at night, and he can live with it. Really, he can; even if this state he’s in doesn’t feel much like living, doesn’t feel much like anything at all. Surviving, he supposes, is a better word; living, but only on the simplest, basest, most biological level.

Some nights he’ll pick up a woman at the bar and take her home; strictly brunettes, whose face he can rearrange after a few drinks into some bleary semblance of Laurel’s, those sharp, intelligent eyes, thin lips, elegant features.

Other nights he and Bonnie just fuck, out of convenience and mutual loneliness, and sometimes he calls her Laurel’s name when he comes, and she gives him the benefit of the doubt, most times, and ignores it.

Usually he just ends up beating off in the shower, like some asshole teenager, wrapping his hand around his cock and bracing his other against the tile wall, that same wall he’d fucked her up against too many times to count, and picturing her face in his mind’s eye.

He doesn’t miss her. He doesn’t miss her. Say it enough times, he just might almost sort of believe it.

And he’ll keep watching her at the office, because why the fuck not. Why not torture himself. What else has he really got to do these days, anyway. If he watches her enough, one day, maybe it’ll start to numb him, like shooting Novacane into his heart so she can continue clawing the useless thing to bits and he can at least pretend he doesn’t feel it.

He hates her too much to love her and he loves her too much to hate her. So he settles on a far simpler alternative: he does neither. He does nothing at all.

He just watches.


	2. Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, surprise surprise, I changed the title of this, because I'm the queen of indecisiveness. Woot. New title comes from the song Lay My Body Down by Rag'N'Bone Man.

It isn’t long before their orbits inevitably cross.

She’s in the kitchen by the coffee pot when he rounds the corner, and he sees her jaw shift immediately, sees her whole body tense up, muscles taut as bowstrings; he swears even her blood must stop pumping through her veins, for a split second. She’s in her grey dress, that dress that fits her like she was born to wear it, clinging to every curve and ending just far enough above the knee to make his blood run hot. Laurel ignores him, though, as deliberately as one can ignore someone, until finally he picks up a mug and comes to a stop beside her, reaching for the coffee pot.

“So,” he begins, casual as anything. “You and the Puppy, huh?”

He’s sure he deserves the glare she gives him. He’s being an asshole. He can’t seem to help it.

“That’s none of your business,” is her tight-jawed answer, and apparently that’s all he gets.

He is, of course, not content with that. “It good, at least? The sex?”

“ _This_ ,” she snaps, rounding on him all at once, “is inappropriate, and constitutes sexual harassment in the workplace.”

There are twin spots of color on her cheeks, and he doesn’t think it’s entirely from anger, though he’s not going to speculate what it _is_ from, just yet, until he can get a closer look at her. With that in mind he takes a step forward, and her breathing picks up almost imperceptibly, but he perceives it. He notices everything about her, knows her mannerisms like the back of his hand, can read the language of her body as easily as he would a book.

“Just a question. For my peace of mind.”

She narrows her eyes. “What?”

“My peace of mind,” he repeats. “So I know you’re being… taken care of.” A pause. “He as good as me?”

She could storm out. She looks like she’s about to; that, or slap him – but she doesn’t do either of those things. She seems to want to stay and fight, though he doesn’t want to fight.

He wants something very different.

Laurel is fuming, clearly, but in that deadly, measured, slow-burning way of hers. “You’re an asshole.”

Backing her up against the wall, even before he realizes he’s doing it. Advancing like a predator on its prey; only there’s no fear in her gaze, and she’s no one’s prey; she never has been, never will be. She could pounce like jaguar at any second and rip his throat out, if she wanted.

He’s still not entirely convinced she _doesn’t_ want that. But she won’t; he knows that, at least.

She may, however, just elect to toss her scalding hot coffee in his face instead.

“He’s not getting you off,” is all he says, a frank observation. “You’re tense, all over. Too tense. Wound so tight, you’re goin’ crazy-”

“He gets me off just fine,” she shoots back, indignant, though the lie in her words rings clear as a bell. “Better than you ever did.”

A chuckle. “Oh yeah?”

“ _Yes_.”

His voice is a purr, now, low and coaxing, and he’s so close he can feel the tremor in her bones, like an earthquake rumbling beneath her skin.

“You’re a bad liar. Always have been. When it comes to the cops you can spin a tale as good as Annalise, but this…” He drifts off. “You can’t lie about this, Laurel.”

“ _Fuck_ you-”

“That what you think about? Fucking me, when he’s flopping around on top of you?” Her eyes glaze over, ice-sharp blue fading to bleary blue-grey; she looks almost hypnotized, and she’s flushed deep red, face burning. He doesn’t dare touch her, but he doesn’t need to; his words feel more intimate than any touch ever could. “He’s not as good as me, princess. _No one’s_ as good as me. He can’t make you come like I do. Can’t break you off like me. Can’t fuck you until you’re begging, ‘til you can’t walk.” His lips curl into a feral grin. “’Til you can’t remember your own goddamn _name_.”

Laurel looks like she wants to say something, summon up some scathing retort, but the words must die on her tongue, and her breathing quickens until he can’t tell if it’s from fury or desire, like she’s inhaling fire and exhaling steam. Her eyes are glacier-cold, sharp as bullets, daggers, knives, anything deadly, but her mouth doesn’t seem to want to cooperate and send a similar message.

And so Frank starts to talk, again. Because he never has been good at shutting the fuck up.

“What do you imagine me doing, hm? Eating you out? Bending you over and taking you from behind? Or letting you fuck yourself on my face… gush into my mouth?” He’s well aware of how smug his grin is, right then; positively shit-eating, though he thinks pussy-eating would be a far more apt descriptor at the moment. “Tell me. I’m curious.”

“I don’t think about you,” Laurel growls, and it’s a dangerous growl; a bone-chilling one. Any sane man would retreat, right about now.

Good thing he’s not sane. Neither is she. He knows the definition of insanity – doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result – and he supposes that’s precisely what this is.

“Don’t gotta be ashamed, y’know. You got my permission. I’m not vindictive. I _want_ you to be getting off.” He leans in an inch closer, her bladed gaze slicing straight through his jugular. “’S good for your health and all that.”

“You think you own me?” she seethes, quietly, voice hushed but no less forceful, words hissed through her teeth like steam. “You think because we used to fuck I belong to you? I _don’t_. I can screw who I want, and-” Her tongue seems to get ahead of her brain, for a moment, and she takes a second to collect herself. “And we’re not just screwing. Wes is good to me. He _loves_ me.”

“ _I_ love you,” he snarls, hurling the words like bombs, though they’re meant to be tenderly-spoken, confessed with the utmost adoration, not said in anger, though sometimes these days Frank feels like anger is all he has.

Laurel blinks. He has hope, for an instant. Then, her face eases back into that hideous, twisting disdain, and all hope is lost.

“Go fuck yourself,” she tells him, and then she’s gone.

Not for long. He knows she’ll be back. He has no doubt she’s dripping underneath that dress, sullying her panties, like she had been the night she’d come to him and he’d teased her mercilessly, denied her cruelly; he doesn’t have to check to know how wet she must be. Probably she’ll find the Puppy, yank him into the bathroom and drag his hand between her legs and let him fumble with ungainly fingers until maybe, just maybe he can grant her some semblance of relief.

None of that matters. He knows she’ll be back, one way or another.

The spirit is willing. But the flesh is weak.


	3. Wrath

“You _fucking_ asshole.”

Frank raises an eyebrow, too caught off guard to feign nonchalance, because all five feet and four inches of Laurel Castillo are stomping their way up to him, eyes and guns blazing. Her jaw is clenched so tight he can see the muscles there rippling, a vein throbbing unnaturally in her forehead in time with her pulse. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her so outright about her anger; normally she sits and simmers silently, patiently, biding her time like an asp lying in wait.

She’s been simmering for a while now, though. He knew sooner or later this pot they’re standing in would boil over.

He just wishes he’d had his morning coffee before having this conversation.

“What?”

“Bonnie told me,” she seethes, flushed and vibrating with her rage, like a red giant expanding beyond the confines of her skin, on the verge of combusting and collapsing in on herself and taking him with her. “About you and her in Coalport.”

She’s by no means speaking quietly, prompting Frank to glance around, assess his surroundings; Annalise is in her office, Bonnie probably in there with her, and the others are off tracking down witnesses for their most recent case. They’re safe enough to have this fight here if they need to, but should it dissolve into a shouting match they won’t be, so Frank exhales sharply like a bull about to charge and grabs her by the arm, leading her toward the stairs.

“C’mere.”

“Get the _hell_ off of me,” Laurel snarls. Her canines look sharp when she bares them, like fangs. “If you touch me again, Frank, I swear to God-”

“What?” he shoots back. “You gonna take a leaf outta your boyfriend’s book and clock me over the head with the trophy? Go ahead. You’d probably be doin’ everyone a favor.”

There are tears in her eyes, he notices, suddenly, like she’s staring up at him with two wet, hot, shimmering coals, but they’re honed in fiercely too, sharp as darts. Realistically, as it stands, she can’t do him any sort of real physical harm, but he’s not going to lie; he’s afraid of her. The quiet one. The most dangerous.

Somewhere along the line she stopped being _quiet_ , though. Now she’s just flat-out dangerous.

“Fuck you,” she fires the words like projectiles, and they hit their mark, hit him square in the chest. She raises herself to her full height. “ _Fuck_ you.”

“Yeah, well, can’t exactly do that here,” he goads her, not bothering to mask the growl in his words. “But I know a perfectly good bed no one’s usin’.”

Laurel smolders, for a moment longer, like a volcano spilling lava over its edges. Then, finally, she storms off up the stairs with a huff.

Frank follows, of course he does, because this is either going to end with him getting slapped or him getting hatefucked – or, most probably, some combination of the two. He closes the door to Annalise’s bedroom behind them, and the instant she’s certain they’re alone, Laurel unleashes on him. She charges, wild-eyed, reaching up and hitting his chest, smacking at him indiscriminately with her fists, spewing a torrent of profanities at him, and he’s never seen her like this, not even remotely _close_ to something like this.

“You son of a bitch – I was worried _sick_ about you! Bonnie texted me a-and told me to shut up and stay quiet while she found you and then went and _fucked_ you – and I called for weeks, I was so worried you were hurt or… or _dead_ or-” She growls, swallowing down her sobs and churning them into anger. “I-I was worried sick and you were balls-deep inside Bonnie the whole time, you _asshole_ -”

“Hey, stop – Christ, Laurel, _stop it_ ,” he sputters, catching her wrists and stilling them close to his chest. “We were done, okay? You told me you didn’t love me and that we were _done_. What the hell was I supposed to do? Stay faithful? Be fuckin’ celibate, save myself for you?”

“We were never _done_ ,” she hisses. “W-we’ve never been _done_ , Frank, we’re never gonna be done and you know that!”

“The hell does that even mea-”

She kisses him, hard, vicious, open-mouthed and filthy. He tastes blood. And he grasps her meaning pretty quickly after that.

She claws at his clothing savagely, like a feline, all but ripping his waistcoat off of him, popping the buttons so hard one of them goes tumbling off and rolling in a circle on the ground. Her kisses are more like assaults, like she’s trying to bite him, consume him, eat him alive. She’s out for blood, this Laurel he doesn’t recognize, his blood and his flesh, ruled by base, carnal desires, and she’s not thinking of her boyfriend now – no, not at all.

Wes may be a puppy. A dog. But he’s a wolf.

Laurel shoves him down on the bed with an amount of force he’d had no idea she could muster, and he goes falling back willingly, still clad in his shirt but sans his pants; she hadn’t bothered with the shirt, had only bothered disrobing the parts of him she’s interested in, and safe to say she’s not interested in anything related to his upper half, because there’s no pretense of romance here and Laurel doesn’t seem at all inclined to bother with one.

She shimmies her way out of the bottom half of her navy pantsuit and shucks her jacket and parts her crisp, white undershirt down the middle, exposing her breasts to him and climbing atop him, and immediately he’s speechless, rendered deaf and dumb. He knows her well enough to know she’s savoring every second of this.

She could get him to do anything for her. Die for her. _Kill_ for her. Anything and everything and then some, and God. _God_.

He was a fucking fool to ever think he could handle her.

She slaps him, bites him, stakes her claim on him, fucks him hard and fast and sloppy but so _good_ , one hand hovering hazardously close to his windpipe as she rides his cock, just barely pressing down, and if she pressed a bit harder he might not be able to breathe at all, and she could kill him. And maybe she should; it’d be some sort of twisted poetic justice, he figures, letting Laurel Castillo screw him to death.

He can’t decide if he’d pity or envy the coroner who had to write _death by hatefuck_ on his autopsy report.


	4. Lust

Once Frank stokes that flame inside her, she’s insatiable.

It borders on obsession, this thing between them that blazes like wildfire catching across a forest with the wind at its back, incinerating everything in its path, blistering and relentless and destructive. Probably it’s unhealthy, bad for both of them, but she can’t bring herself to care, never did, never will.

It’s madness, the intensity with which they’re drawn to each other, as if he was sculpted out of clay for her, and she for him; Adam and Eve, the first people in the world and their original sin.

Suddenly it feels as though her body had been lying dormant, in Frank’s absence, and for all of Wes’s charmingly inept attempts at changing that, the only thing that had awoken it was his return, set her alight, burning and crackling and shooting out of control like a firework. She feels _alive_ , with Frank, in a way no one’s ever made her feel alive before, her blood molten, her senses sharp as sparks. Her flesh pines for his. She feels insane.

_Is_ insane, probably. He made her insane.

She dreams of it, when she’s not with him, on the days they can’t be together. Spends all day at the office watching him, pressing her sticky thighs together and praying to God no one can see the redness budding on her cheeks, hear the stuttering of her foolish heart. If she’s not with Wes at night she buries a hand between her thighs, pawing at her clit, fucking herself with her fingers and imagining they belong to Frank instead.

On the nights she is, she crawls into bed with him dutifully, letting Wes take his place atop her, jab his fingers clumsily inside her, never sure where to apply pressure, where to lick, suck, perpetually uncertain what to do with his hands in general and always asking for permission. At first it’d been endearing; now it just makes her want to scream, but she never does. Wes loves her. Wes is gentle, in that tall, awkwardly disarming way of his, like a gazelle. Wes would do anything for her.

Wes always comes too quickly, leaves her dangling on the precipice. Wes can’t get her off, despite his bumbling best efforts, as he ruts between her thighs with all the finesse of a clumsy baby deer.

She’s been here before. Replace _Wes_ with _Kan_ and you have a near carbon-copy of the events of her 1L year. It seems to be a pattern.

She’s so fucking predictable she hates herself.

And yet she can’t stop; she’s a junkie, perpetually jonesing for another hit, for another chance to shoot Frank into her veins and ride that euphoric high until she comes crashing down, only to repeat the cycle all over again. She feels filthy. Wicked. She feels like a slut, and she is one, she must be; letting her boyfriend between her legs one minute before turning around the next and fucking Frank, who isn’t her boyfriend, who can never be, again. There’s a distinct difference, between Wes and Frank, between lovemaking and fucking – though she knows Frank would make love to her if she granted him the opportunity, because he’s done it before, and truth be told that’s what she fears most.

She knows exactly how he’d do it, too.

He’d go slow, measured. He wouldn’t ask permission, but he would be gentle, saturating each touch with all the affection in the world. He’d suckle her breasts until they ached, then worm a hand between her legs to work her clit back and forth until she was begging, and then at last he’d slide home, spread her wide and stretch her and _fill_ her, fill every millimeter of empty, throbbing space; empty space that feels so hollow without him in it.

He’d fuck her good and slow, stare in her eyes, and that stare, the intensity of it – God, she can imagine it now, black pupils and blue irises swirling together in a hazy pool, black and blue, beating her pussy black and blue – and it would be enough to be her undoing. _All_ of him is her undoing. He’s an incubus, the Devil in a three-piece.

And he’d make love to her, if she’d let him. But that’s not what he’s doing right now.

Because right now he has her bent over a shelf in Annalise’s musty, dusty, dingy basement; skirt hiked up, lace panties crumpled crimson-red around her ankles, and he’s slamming into her, almost drubbing her, fucking her until she sees stars, until she’s so numb she has no real concept of where his body ends and hers begins. She feels filthy, ridiculous and so free, wide open, taking his cock from behind and moaning shamelessly. There’s a cracked old mirror a few feet away from them; she thinks he’d chosen this spot in particular so they could watch themselves, and Laurel can’t resist.

She’s strong-willed in most pursuits. When it comes to Frank her willpower is approximately zilch.

One of his large hands is roaming her chest, grabbing at her tits, thumbing the nipples. The other is sewn in with hers where she’s braced herself against the shelf, letting her squeeze it as he fucks into her; a subtle act of tenderness that doesn’t quite jive with the distinct lack of romance in this scenario. If she weren’t on the verge of collapsing, she thinks she might be mildly disconcerted by it.

She clenches around his cock when she comes, and the force of it hits her like a kick in the head, sending her toppling off the very precarious balance beam she’s situated herself on. She stumbles, her knees giving out underneath her, but Frank catches her by the hips, pants out a chuckle and nips at her earlobe and holds her upright.

“Woah, hey,” he purrs, and the smirk he gives is downright sinful, and God, she thinks, he really _is_ the Devil, and she's sold her soul to him, and she doesn't even remotely want it back. “I got ya. I got ya.”

He’s got her. He’d never let her fall.

She can’t speak, can only barely muster the energy to wrestle air into her lungs. She’s sweat-soaked, disheveled. She looks well and truly fucked, fucked inside out, and there’s no hiding that pleasant, hazy, sated expression on her face, the looseness of her body, the trembling of her knees. She knows Wes won’t see; he never does. He loves her, but he’s naïve and blind, on an entirely different wavelength than her most days, and he can never see.

“’Til next time,” Frank murmurs, voice thick like honey in her ear, pulling up her panties and peeling down her skirt, and all she can do is breathe out a laugh.

Once upon a time, maybe, she would’ve told herself there won’t be a next time. But she’s a shit liar, especially to herself. So this time Laurel doesn’t bother.


	5. Gluttony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, An Ode to How Much Frank Delfino Loves Eating Pussy.

He really genuinely does believe he was born to eat Laurel Castillo’s pussy.

It’s not an exaggeration. He must’ve been put on this earth for that purpose alone, for burying his face in between her thighs and lapping her up. For serving her. For listening to her litany of profanities alternating with nearly unintelligible, sobbed praise, like an unholy hymnal. He’d keep his mouth attached to her cunt at every second if she commanded it; he thinks he could live off her for every meal of the day.

Frank doesn’t think she’d object.

He’s good at what he does, knows how to play her body, knows the exact ratio of licking to sucking that she prefers on her clit, where to apply pressure, how to hook his fingers in that one particular spot which drives her off the deep end. Doesn’t matter how he’s doing it; if he’s prostrated before her, if she’s on her hands and knees and he’s working her cunt from behind, if she’s pinning him down and riding his face, different positions for that same sweet act, like different flavors of her. He’ll have her any way she’ll allow him.

Sometimes he thinks he gets off on this even more than she does. He craves it with a fiery, wolffish hunger, the desire churning through him at every hour of every day.

He can never get enough of her.

She’s spread-eagled on his bed, thighs splayed apart, all laid out like a decadent feast of flesh; milk-pale skin and rosebud nipples and that perfect cunt blooming between her thighs, the breathtaking pastel shades of her dimmed by the cloudy grey daylight outside. They’ve both lost track of how many times he’s made her come, but by now she’s soaked his face like she’s soaked his sheets, and she’s limp and boneless as a ragdoll, writhing and undulating and nearly convulsing beneath his mouth.

He thinks she may be borderline catatonic, at this point. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he might have killed her.

“Oh fuck, oh fuckfuckfuck Frank I can’t, it’s… God, _oh_ -”

She’s sobbing, hard, grasping at his slick hair so hard he thinks she might rip chunks of it out by the roots. It’s like a melody, her cries filling the room, though they become muffled from time to time when she clamps her thighs over his ears and lifts her hips off the bed, bucking helplessly into his mouth and mewling.

 _God_ , she’s beautiful. He wants to break her off until she comes apart at the seams. Until it utterly destroys her.

The cold, unfriendly autumn rain pelting his window had kept them inside all day, and so, of course, with nothing else to do they’d ended up here, and he has no cause for complaint, and by the look of it, neither does she. It should be cold; the heater in his new apartment is shit and never works right, but they’ve insulated themselves between these sheets, don’t need a heater at all except for the warmth their bodies produce. And she’s so hot. She burns, smoldering like a little ember, and he’s more than happy to burn with her.

“Come for me. Again,” he draws back long enough to coax, licking his dripping lips, tasting each intoxicating nuance of her flavor: salt, sweet, freshness, that distinctive tang that’s oh-so-Laurel. She’d shaved herself baby-smooth, and she’s so clean, so delectable, nectar of the fucking gods and she’s his, all his, every last drop. “Let’s break the world record. Get in the Guinness Book.”

 _Most consecutive orgasms given in an hour._ Yeah, he’s pretty sure he could break that.

Somehow – and he has no idea how – Laurel manages a sputtering, blissed out laugh. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” And he’s right. Despite her best efforts, Laurel doesn’t.

She’s a sight to behold, like an erotic painting, his own private Danaë. She’s a goddess who controls time, manipulates it with some otherworldly power, makes him drop to his knees with one word, one flick of her wrist, and he doesn’t go to church, never has, but this feels as good as any religion, here and now, this bed their altar and him her hopeless devotee. Christ did say to eat his body, after all – or something along those lines.

And he’s so _hungry_ for her. Ravenous. He can’t get enough. His is a thirst that can never be quenched. He wants her so bad he can’t sleep. When he does sleep, he dreams of her. Dreams of _this_.

Because Laurel flows thick and sweet as honey into his mouth when she comes again, body tightening, cunt pulsing, gushing, and he could swear this is paradise. He flicks at her overused clit until she jerks away, muscles moving mostly involuntarily, but he holds her down, spreads her wider still, continues to work her without mercy until she’s building again and she’s powerless to stop him, weak from pleasure and so, so far gone. Really, though, he’s the one who’s further gone, so lost in her body it’s as if the whole universe consists of nothing more than her tits, the rolling mound between her thighs, the plane of her stomach, the shapely counters of her hips and waist, and the wellspring of her cunt which he drinks from like a man wandering in the desert.

He loves her. He’s in love with her, and he wants more of her, more and more, wants to make her come so many times she forgets the Puppy exists at all, forgets she could ever want anyone but him.

He wants to make her love him. He wants it so bad he could scream.

She's as intoxicating as liquor and he’s drunk on her, and after she’s come again – for the third or fourth or fifth time, or maybe more, who the fuck knows – he creeps up the bed, agile as a feline, and settles himself over her. Somehow Laurel manages to wrench open her eyes, though they’re hazy and can’t focus properly on him, and if he didn’t know better he’d say she looks stoned out of her goddamn mind, body buzzing, wide open and fucked out.

“Taste yourself,” he murmurs, and probes his slick fingers past her lips.

She takes them in, sucking his digits eagerly, moaning and humming around them. It dampens her lips, makes them shine like his, and he could come from that sight alone, the sight of Laurel licking herself off his fingers, so completely and thoroughly debauched, lips pulling into an absolutely rotten little grin.

And he kisses her again. He kisses her, tastes her, and even after gorging himself on her, he still craves more.

He could have all of her and he thinks it would still never be enough.


	6. Greed

 “ _More_.”

The plea is rough and jagged, torn from deep in her lungs as the rhythmic pelting of the shower water numbs her. Frank pins her up against the cool tile wall and lifts one of her legs and fucks into her, and she feels like she’s drowning, caught in the hurricane that is him, body huge and slick and cock just as much so, filling her until she thinks she might break in half.

And yet Laurel needs more. That elusive, indefinable _more_. She’s no longer sure what it means, exactly; all she knows is that she needs it.

She’s spoiled. She’ll be the first to admit it. She wanted for nothing as a child and now she wants for everything, never content with her lot. She grew up having her proverbial cake and eating it too.

She’s greedy. Grasping. Selfish. She wants it all, wants everything, all the time.

And she should feel bad, she knows she should, for doing this to Frank and poor sweet Wes; sweet, naïve Wes, who doesn’t suspect a thing, who she doesn’t deserve, who is so caring and understanding and accepting of her, but ultimately can’t give her what she needs. And Frank, who loves her hopelessly, who kindles that wildfire in her blood. Who makes her _live_.

The problem is, she’s content with how things are. She should feel worse than she does, dancing this delicate dance between two men, but she supposes it’s not as though she hasn’t done it before. She wants them both. She fantasizes, sometimes, about having the two of them at once, lavishing attention on her, fucking her at the same time and filling her and _using_ her until she’s drooling and spent, until she can’t move or breathe or lift her head.

It’s filthy. She wants it all. She can’t help it. She doesn’t even _want_ to help it, and that’s the worst thing of all.

Wes has what she wants, that pure, simple, playground sort of love, soft words and sweet nothings and cheesy dates at carnivals where he wins her a giant teddy bear or some similar cliché, the same kind of love all the lanky, half-interested boys at prep school had given her – most only fulfilling what they saw as the obligation of romance to get in her pants afterward, like completing a series of transactional steps.

Frank has what she needs. She long ago gave up trying to run from him, from what they have, that pull as strong as the force of gravity, that intrinsic draw. Sometimes she wants to hate him. Sometimes she _does_ hate him.

Never for long, though.

Frank complies, quickening his pace, and the rough, punishing thrusts bring her back down to earth, his rock of a body pressed hard against her breasts. She’s soaked – from the shower water and in _other_ ways – clinging to his back, hands slippery and groping for purchase, fingers pruned.

And still it’s not enough. Not nearly.

“Harder!”

This is untenable. This can’t hold. One day she’ll slip up, or Wes will grow suspicious, or the others will find out, and this carefully-balanced house of cards she’s erected will collapse like a child’s game; like removing one precarious Jenga piece and watching everything crumble around it.

She doesn’t know what made her this way; she’s always been like this, plagued with an insatiable hunger. All she’s ever done is want. She’s a black hole inside a woman’s body, hungry and relentless and rapidly circling, intent on self-destruction, always craving more. More, more, more.

“More – God, _more_ -”

He’s going to break her, it feels like; rip her in half or split her in two. Each thrust slams her up against the wall, and Frank reaches down, hooking his hand under her thigh and hoisting her up higher, urging her to lock her ankles at the small of his back. He’s dripping wet, his hair and beard dotted with droplets of water, so strong and powerful and downright dwarfing her. It all fades away, slowly, bit by bit, until all she can hear is the thundering of her heart, the sound of blood pumping madly in her ears and the faint hissing of the shower head.

When she comes, she comes like she’s being pulled under by a tsunami, feels the power of it thrum through her limbs, muscles, tendons, bones; an earthquake and a monsoon and land and sea and everything in the world hitting her at once until she feels as though she’s leaving her body altogether. She buries her face into Frank’s shoulder and bites down, and within seconds he’s roaring out his climax too, spilling hot and sudden inside her. Her cunt milks him for everything he’s worth, pulsing and clenching around him as if to hold him there forever. And it’s not enough.

Nothing is ever enough. If she has enough, she wants more. If she has good, she wants better. If she has close, she wants closer.

If she has one, she wants _two_.

“You good?” he manages to choke out, and she shakes her head once her vision stops spinning, staring at him with a razor-sharp resoluteness.

“Again,” is all she breathes, standing on her tiptoes to seize his lips with hers. “ _Again_.”

She’s never content to come just once; she’s spoiled in that regard too, though Laurel thinks that’s largely his fault. Frank raises his eyebrows, pleasantly taken aback, and slides open his frosted glass shower door, tugging her out and over to his countertop, lifting her up and setting her bare ass down on the marble.

He’s not going to get it up fast enough to fuck her again, at least not right away, so instead he slips his hand between her damp, dripping thighs, hooking two fingers inside her while another toys with her overstimulated clit. She’s still raw and sensitive from before, and maybe anyone else would bat him away, say it’s too much, too much – but Laurel has lived her life in excess, in overindulgence, and it isn’t, not to her.

She wants all of him. Doesn’t want any other woman touching him – and she knows how hypocritical that is, that he should be faithful to her while she can’t be faithful to him, or anyone. Monogamy has never been her strong suit; she wants too often and too strongly to ever be satisfied with one person.

All she wants is everything. She doesn’t think that’s too much to ask.


	7. Sloth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are!! This fic was short and sweet, and I hope you guys enjoyed :) Keep an eye out for more from me sometime soon.

“I don’t ever wanna leave this bed.”

“Then don’t,” is Frank’s simple solution. He strides over, slipping back underneath the sheets with her and holding out a pomegranate for her to take. “Not yet, at least. Breakfast in bed. Bon appetit.”

Laurel, who is sprawled out, basking in the young sunlight, just as naked as he is, props herself up on her elbows and hums, taking the fruit when he offers it.

“Mmm. Well, it’s feasible. Could always drop out and switch to online law school. University of Phoenix or whatever. Pay fifty grand for a degree that’d get me laughed out of most courtrooms.”

“I could quit my job,” he suggests, and presses a scratchy kiss to her shoulder. “Become… whatever the male equivalent of a camgirl is.”

“Oh, God,” she chortles, splitting the fruit neatly and revealing the bloody core of seeds within, turning it over in her hands for a moment. She thinks, briefly, that it looks almost like a heart, imagines herself sinking her claws into _his_ heart. Knows she already has, in so many ways. “Well, if it helps, I’d definitely be your first subscriber.”

“Subscriber?” Frank chuckles. “Babe, you’d be my _co-star_.”

“As long as I get a cut of the profits. Sixty percent, for…” she drifts off, popping a seed into her mouth, “services rendered.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Sixty?”

“Oh, please. We all know who your viewers would really be tuning in to see.”

Frank laughs, again, and it’s full-chested and raucous this time, azure eyes dancing like water someone has skipped a stone across, and part of his fair falls forward into his face. It makes her heart swell too big for the confines of her ribs which contain it, until it feels like it just might crack them into bits and keep expanding out and up and in every direction anyway.

Because she loves him, and she can’t tell him; can’t let herself cross that line again, that point of no return. She gave him that vulnerability once – _I can’t keep doing this. Falling for you, because I am_ – and he repaid her with three very different words, and destroyed the both of them in the process. Even this, spending the night and waking up in the morning next to him, feels a bit like she’s venturing into unwise territory yet again, led around on a leash by her fool of a heart.

She thinks she can permit herself this, though. Just this once.

Laurel digs another few seeds out, giggling as Frank kisses a trail down the sinuous line of her spine, and chews them, savoring the burst of tartness and licking her lips. This reminds her of something, vaguely; some metaphor, Hades and sweet little Persephone with her pomegranate, and if every gigahertz of her brainpower wasn’t currently being utilized to track the journey of Frank’s mouth down toward her ass, she thinks she might examine that in greater depth.

But then his fingers are joining his mouth and slipping lower, between her legs, gliding over her folds, and she moans around her mouthful of pomegranate, head slipping forward. In seconds Frank has her flipped over onto her side, and he tangles his limbs in with hers, sliding home and coiling himself around her like a vine.

“Yeah, I know who they’d been tunin’ in to see,” he drawls in her ear, movements lazy, thrusts imprecise, but each one eliciting a little fluttering gasp from her. “It’d be you. All you. _Fuck_.” He moans, burying his face into her neck and shaking his head. “Fuck, you really don’t know how beautiful you are, do you?”

God. _God_ , she’s going to have to have a talk with him about just coming out and _saying_ that kind of shit to her. She can’t take it.

It’s all sloppy Sunday morning sex, with the haze of sleep dulling any passion but certainly not dulling the pleasure. There’s no real sense of urgency, though, and Laurel thinks she likes it better this way, likes letting him arrange her into half a dozen different positions with no rush; siting on his lap or throwing her leg over his shoulder or kneeling on her hands and knees, letting him mount her from behind, fuck her slowly, very slowly, and let her truly feel the build, the clench of her muscles, the curling of her toes.

The pomegranate tumbles from her grasp and stains the sheets with streaks of pink that could almost be blood, and when Laurel comes she all but flatlines, going weak in his grasp and collapsing forward onto her elbows. They tumble down together afterwards, fitting together like two jagged puzzle pieces, and pick at the remains of the pomegranate, chatting happily until Laurel sighs and looks at the time on her phone.

“I gotta go,” she mutters, burying her face into the pillow. She’s sticky with sweat, the sheets clinging to her body, and when Frank moves in closer she winces from the added heat. “Wes is coming over. We have an Evidence exam Monday. He wants to… study.”

The mention of his name sours the air, but Frank recovers quickly, latching onto her neck and laying kisses there, as if he can compel her to stay by sheer force of will, by latching on and simply refusing to let go.

“Blow him off,” he begs, and she’s surprised how much desperation bleeds through; he doesn’t make much of an effort to conceal it, and God, she feels so guilty. She feels so much of _everything_ , all the time, with Frank. “C’mon. Say you got caught up embarking on an entrepreneurial venture. ‘Cause I’m one hundred percent gonna hold you to the cam thing.”

She doesn’t laugh. “Frank…”

There are a variety of ways Frank could make this worse; by starting a serious conversation, an argument. By asking her to leave Wes like he has so many times before, telling her he loves her, that he knows she feels it too, that she can’t possibly _not_ feel it too, and she’ll have to lie, because she always has to lie when he goes there. She runs all those scenarios in her head, preparing her responses which by now feel almost scripted, but thankfully none of them become a reality.

Instead, all she gets is-

“Stay,” he rasps against her skin, reaching up, smoothing a hand across her breast and toying with the nipple.

“Frank-”

“Stay,” he pleads again, ghosting his lips across hers so lightly it feels more like a whisper than real, physical contact. He kisses her lightly, kisses that same plea into her mouth again, before drawing away and meeting her eyes. “Please, Laurel. Please.”

And – well. There’s really no way she can say _no_ to that.


End file.
